


Messages

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation, Running Hot, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal was becoming intimately familiar with Peter’s voicemail message.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messages

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ciaimapala's prompts at [RUNNING HOT: The Multifandom Fever Fic Meme](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/81197.html): After the events of the season finale, Neal ends up getting sick, and spikes a dangerous fever. Peter won't return his calls, until Mozzie tells him that Neal is really sick.

Neal was becoming intimately familiar with Peter’s voicemail message.

“You’ve reached Special Agent Peter Burke of the White Collar Crime division of the FBI. Please leave a message after the tone and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Brisk, business-like, and a lie, because Peter hadn’t returned any of Neal’s calls. He’d gotten a text in reply to the first message he’d left to let Peter know he was sick and couldn’t come in. _Fine_ , was all the text had said. No _are you all right?_ or _do you need anything?_ It stung, even if Neal hadn’t expected anything else. Every call after that - three so far - had been ignored. The fourth time, Neal listened to the voice mail recording and simply hung up. The truth was that he wasn’t all right, he was about as far from all right as he’d ever been, and he needed help, but he clearly wasn’t going to be get any from Peter.

What Neal still couldn’t wrap his head around was how _quickly_ things had gone south between him and Peter. In twenty-four hours they had gone from working together seamlessly against Adler to Peter accusing him of having set the whole thing up. And now, two weeks later, Neal actually was sitting on one of the biggest caches of recovered art in history and trying to figure out what to do with it. He couldn’t fence it; it was Nazi loot and soaked in blood. But if he turned it over, would Peter ever believe he hadn’t stolen it to begin with? Neal wasn’t sure, and the thought of taking that risk had been keeping him up at night recently.

And at the moment, though, he really didn’t care. At the moment, he was lying on his bathroom floor, having spent the last seven hours throwing up; he was dehydrated and feverish to the point of disorientation, and Peter was ignoring his calls. He wondered if Peter was listening to his messages or just deleting them as they came in. What would happen, he wondered, if he left a message that said, “I have the art, I have all of it, and I’ll tell you exactly where it is for a six-pack of ginger ale and a damp washcloth”?

He wasn’t that foolish. But he was starting to be that desperate.

Neal finally inched his way upright into a sitting position, scrunching himself into the corner where the bathtub met the wall. He leaned his head against the smooth, cool porcelain, and spent a few minutes simply not moving. He didn’t know if it was food poisoning or a stomach virus, but either way this was wretched. He clutched his phone in shaking hands. Maybe if he called Peter one more time . . .

No. Even sick as a dog and spiking a fever, Neal had that much dignity. He hit speed dial #2 and closed his eyes, waiting while it rang. “Hey Moz,” he said, when Moz picked up, “I need a favor . . .”

***

Mozzie hated emergency rooms and for very good reason. If you weren’t sick when you went in, chances were you would be when you came out. Hospitals were festering pits of pestilence. But he’d done worse for Neal than spend a few hours sitting in an ER. He certainly couldn’t just leave him there; he was too sick to look after himself. He’d get lost in the depths of the medical-industrial complex and never find his way out again.

“Not appendicitis,” the first resident who saw them said. “Could be food poisoning, could be a virus. We’ll have to run some tests to find out. I’ll get you started on IV fluids in the meantime. You’ll feel better once you’re hydrated, and they’ll help bring your fever down, too.”

Neal looked like he was too wrung out to answer, so Moz did it for him. “Thanks,” he told the kid, who nodded, scribbled something on Neal’s chart, and left. Mozzie scooted his chair closer to the bed. “Hey,” he said. Neal’s eyes blinked open slowly. “How you doing?”

“Awful,” Neal whispered. “Don’t leave, Moz, all right?”

“Of course not,” Mozzie said, though he knew it was only a matter of time before he got twitchy and had to get some air. “Anyway, you’ll feel a lot better once they get some fluids in you. The doctor didn’t seem worried.” Neal gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment and closed his eyes again. Mozzie hesitated. “Hey, before you fall asleep . . . do you want me to call anyone for you?”

Neal opened his eyes. “Like who?”

“Like the Suit?”

Neal shook his head. “Called him . . . four times. He won’t pick up or call back.” Neal swallowed, painfully. “Don’t call him, please. He won’t come and I just . . . I can’t deal with it right now.”

“Okay,” Mozzie said gently, even though the obvious misery in Neal’s voice made him want to find the Suit and punch him in the face. Except not really, because that was a recipe for a broken hand and getting arrested. “Get some rest, all right?”

Neal closed his eyes. “Thanks, Moz.”

He waited until Neal was well and truly asleep, then got up and went down the hall to the designated cell phone area, where using his phone wouldn’t get him yelled at by the nurses. Neal had asked him not to call the Suit, and so Mozzie wouldn’t. But Neal was being made miserable by the Suit’s indifference, and that Mozzie would not let stand. It was time to apply to a higher authority.

“Hello?” Elizabeth said.

“Mrs. Suit,” Mozzie said, pleasantly.

“Mozzie, hi!” she said, sounding pleased. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said, emphasis on _I’m_. “But I’m calling on behalf of Neal, who is not. He spent last night puking his guts out. We’re at the ER. They’re planning to pump him full of fluids and run some tests to find out what sort of nasty he’s picked up. He’ll be fine,” he added, before El could ask.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that much,” she said. “Do you need me to come down and sit with him?”

“No,” Mozzie said bluntly, feeling his temper flare. “I need you to call your husband and tell him to remove his head from his federal ass and show some goddamn concern for Neal.” That might’ve been too loud, Mozzie realized, when several people in the room turned to glare at him. He lowered his voice and hissed furiously into the phone, “Four times, El, Neal called Peter _four times_ , and he refused to pick up and refused to call back. Neal asked me not to call him again, because he thinks the Suit doesn’t care enough to come.”

El was silent, briefly. “Peter is . . . very angry at Neal.”

If Peter was mad enough for El to be cautious, then things were dire indeed. “Whatever he thinks Neal did, he didn’t do it. I’d know. And frankly I don’t care how the Suit feels. I care about Neal, and for whatever Stockholm Syndrome reason I don’t understand, Neal cares about the Suit. He is in enough pain right now without thinking your husband has decided to hate him.”

El was silent again, for longer this time. “I can’t promise anything,” she said at last. “I wish I could, Moz, but I can’t. But I will try. Where are you guys?”

Mozzie gave her the hospital information, agreed to go to lunch with her next week regardless, and hung up. He slipped his phone back in his pocket as he left the room. He’d done what he could, he reflected; now it was up to El. And Peter.

***

Neal did start to feel better once they started him on an IV. The idea of eating anything was still incredibly disagreeable, but at least the horrible, shaky feeling abated. He felt well enough to notice that the resident treating him was attractive, though not well enough flirt with her, and he managed to drink and keep down the weak tea Mozzie got him from the vending machine.

Moz had gone to get him a second cup of tea when the curtain surrounding his bed was tugged back to reveal Elizabeth. And, hovering just behind her, Peter.

Neal stared. “Oh God,” he sighed, closing his eyes, “I told him not to call you.”

“You told him not to call Peter,” Elizabeth said briskly. “You neglected to say anything about me.” She dropped her bag on the visitor’s chair and kissed him on the forehead. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“Better. Fluids make life much easier.”

She smiled and brushed her hand over his forehead. “You’re still pretty warm.”

“101.9, last time they checked,” Neal said, letting his head fall back against the pillow, “down from 103.2 when they admitted me.”

She pursed her lips. “Heading in the right direction, at least.” She turned and looked at Peter, who was hovering just inside the curtain. He was staring at something to the left of Neal’s head. “Honey?” she finally prompted, sweetly but with a definite edge.

Peter’s head jerked up. “Ah - yeah.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls, Neal. I didn’t listen to your messages until after El told me what was going on. If I had, I wouldn’t - I’d never have ignored you like that.”

As apologies went, Neal felt it left something to be desired. By the look on El’s face, she thought so, too. “Well, I guess it’s good to know you’d spit on me if I were on fire,” Neal said, knowing he sounded bitter and not caring.

Peter exhaled harshly. “I said I was sorry, Neal. What else do you want from me?”

Neal wasn’t sure whether Peter meant that as a rhetorical question. He glanced at El, who gave him the tiniest of nods. Neal looked at Peter, forced him to hold his gaze, and said, “I want you to trust me again. I want you to believe me when I tell you I didn’t steal the art. I want to know,” damn, Neal suddenly had a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes, damn, damn, damn, “that when I call you for help, you’ll answer.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pull himself together. But the fever and exhaustion wouldn’t let him, and he finally gave it up. “But mostly,” he finished, voice shaking, “I just want you to stop standing so far away.”

Peter exhaled again, but this time it was as shaky as Neal’s voice. Neal forced himself to open his eyes and look at him. Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “El,” he said, raggedly.

El nodded, kissed Neal on the forehead one more time, and said, “I’m going to go find Mozzie. Be nice,” she added to Peter in an undertone as she left.

The two of them were left staring at each other. “I hate this,” Peter finally said. “I hate being angry at you. I hate that when you told me you were sick this morning, all I said was, _Fine_. And I really, really hate that I ignored all your calls after that. I’m so sorry, Neal. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Neal said, even though it kind of wasn’t. Peter shook his head. “Hey,” Neal added, “what did I say about standing so far away?”

Peter snorted and stepped forward, dropping into the visitor’s chair. He looked away, briefly, then looked back to meet Neal’s eyes. “You really didn’t steal it? Or set it up for someone else to steal it?”

“I really didn’t. And I don’t know who did. But," he drew a deep breath, "I know where it is.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open. “Neal -”

“I swear, Peter. I swear I didn’t steal it. I came home that day and there was a note on my table with an address. It was a warehouse, and inside of it was - everything.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Peter demanded. Neal gave him a look. Peter sighed. “Right. Well, never mind that now. We’ll deal with it once you’re better.”

Neal nodded. He closed his eyes. “I hate it, too, Peter. Can we just not anymore?”

“I don’t know if it’s going to be that easy.”

Neal shrugged. “Maybe not, but for right now . . .”

“Sure,” Peter said, and reached out to cover Neal’s hand with his own. “For right now.”

***

Mozzie came back from his tea run to find Elizabeth hovering just outside Neal’s curtained-off cubicle. He tapped her on the shoulder; she turned, smiled, and pulled him away down the hallway. “So on a scale of one to a hundred, exactly how mad is Neal going to be at me?” Mozzie said, by way of greeting.

“Not very, I don’t think,” El said. “Peter was . . . well, the messages Neal left for him this morning were eye-opening. He was pretty upset with himself after.”

“Good,” Mozzie said, with feeling.

El shook her head. “Peter’s a good man. He genuinely thought Neal had betrayed him. And he thought he might have shot and killed a man because of it. Cut him some slack, Mozzie, please.”

“Hmph,” Mozzie said, and glanced down the hallway toward Neal’s room just as one of the nurses pulled the curtain back. In the half second before the nurse pulled it shut again, he caught a glimpse of Peter, seated at Neal’s bedside. As he watched, Peter said something, and Neal looked up at him and _smiled_.

“Well, all right,” he said, turning back to El. “Just this once.”

_Fin._


End file.
